“Do you play cricket?” she asked, with something like pity in her eyes.  I did not—­but I was by this time in such condign fear of this young Amazon that I was really afraid to admit my total ignorance of the sport.  She made me wicket-keep for her, without pads, for an entire hour, at the end of which I readily assented to an invitation for further exploration.

We went through endless passages to an endless gymnasium, and every now and then I came across an Indian club or a dumb-bell, wielded by energetic female athletes.  I should have liked to ask them whether they felt well, but I realised—­only just in time—­that the question would have been an impertinence.

“Are you getting satisfied?” said my unwearied guide, with another of her smiles, “or, do you still think we are a puny misshapen race?”

“Quite satisfied!” I replied, faintly, as I endeavoured to unclose a rapidly discolouring eye, “in fact, I begin to discredit that alarmist cry—­”

Before I could complete the sentence, I found myself executing an involuntary parabola over some adjacent parallel bars.  My young friend’s brows had contracted into a frown, although she waited politely for me to pick myself up.

“I thought we agreed not to mention that name!” she said, coldly.

I felt that any attempt to explain my innocence would be received with quiet scorn.  “I—­I should like to ask you just one thing more,” I said, desperately, as I lay on my back, “I am really entirely converted—­quite ashamed.  I do hope you won’t think me—­er—­inquisitive—­but I have been so often told—­it has been so constantly asserted—­” I found myself bungling horribly in my desire not to offend.

“Pray go on,” she said, “we try to be simple and sincere, and we are always ready to satisfy an intelligent inquirer.”

“Well,” I said, desperately, “people do say that you all wear—­er—­blue stockings.  But I am sure,” I added quickly, “that it is not true” ...

It was too late.  When the friend who had smuggled me into the building came to my rescue, he asked me, rather noisily, “if I was feeling well?” I replied that I was not, and that I did not think I ever should again.  And I never have.

* * * * *

TRUE MODESTY.

    [A West-end hosier advertises suits of Pyjamas in his window
    as “the latest styles in slumber-wear.”]

  All hail, O hosier; deem me not absurd
  That I should thank thee for so apt a word. 
  ’Tis thus that Modesty our language trims: 
  Where men say “legs” she softly whispers “limbs.” 
  And, while they fume and rage in angry pother,
  Stills the big D——­ and substitutes a “bother.” 
  Speaks not of “trousers”—­that were sin and shame;
  “Continuations” is the gentler name. 
  Turns “shirts” to “shifts,” and, blushing like the rose,
  Converts the lowly stocking into “hose.” 
  Thus thou, my hosier, profferest me a pair
  Of these, the latest style of slumber-wear.